


Hat Full of Glass

by succeeding



Series: Glass [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dick Grayson Has Issues, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Bad at Feelings, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24169996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/succeeding/pseuds/succeeding
Summary: Dick's injured one night on patrol, which is no big deal. Sure, his face is a little burnt, but it's not like anything serious happened-- so why is everyone acting like it has? Faced with a concussion and mandatory rest, he has a lot of time to think, and that's never good for someone in their line of business.OR: An injury threatens to scar Dick's face, and it brings up a lot of things in him, things he hadn't realized were even there. The Batfamily acts and reacts.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Everyone
Series: Glass [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745233
Comments: 144
Kudos: 1308
Collections: Canon Divergent AUs





	Hat Full of Glass

**Author's Note:**

> This is a dark one, folks. Please read the tags and take care of yourselves. Blanket warnings for content apply.

All things told, it’s a pretty easy patrol when it happens. 

It’s a couple of hours past midnight and the soccer hooligans are out on the streets after a big win-- or loss, depending on which side they were on. Things are typical: some cars overturned or set on fire, a few instances of breaking and entering, a spattering of drunken fist fights surrounded by an equally drunk crowd. 

It’s a nice family event. Damian and Tim are breaking up the fights while managing _not_ to fight each other, Jason and Bruce are apprehending the burglars, and Dick’s on his own, staving off the successive waves of idiots trying to vandalize cars. 

Things seem to have slowed down on his part when he hears a whine, loud and piercing. At first Dick thinks it’s a human, but when he crosses the empty street and looks around, all he sees is a dog.

A dog tied to a car.

A car which is on fire. 

People are such pieces of shit. 

Dick sprints over, stopping just out of biting range. Sure enough, it’s tied to the car with a chain leash and choker collar. 

“Hey there,” he says, and the dog keens, frantically thumping its tail against the sidewalk. 

He drops to a crouch, inching forward slowly. The dog is afraid (who wouldn’t be?) but if it were to move backwards it’d be putting itself in reach of the flames. So there it remains, pitiful and abandoned, clearly scared out of its mind but unable to find a place of retreat. 

He needs to make this quick. The dog is suffering. It might bite him out of fear, but the suit’s seen worse, and it’s not such a big dog, anyway. 

As quick as he can, he throws his hands out and pulls the chain collar loose. The dog yanks free and Dick grabs after it, wanting to make sure it’s alright, but someone behind him shouts, “Hey asshole, that was my dog!”

Dick throws one arm up in defense, twisting around to spring up, but the thug has a baseball bat, and it’s already in motion. 

His vision goes black when it hits him, and he falls back against the car. Then-- then, the pain.

“Nightwing!” he hears fuzzily, not sure who’s saying it, and it can’t have been more than a couple of seconds by the time someone’s got their hands on him, pulling him away from the blaze. 

He’s dazed, head spinning, and he feels like puking when that same someone hauls him up, throws him over their shoulder. Then, as his vision strobes in and out, he’s put into what seems to be the Batmobile and there’s motion, motion, motion, as the engine roars. 

* * *

“Of _all_ things,” Leslie says to him an indeterminate time later, “I would not have expected a car to give you your first major facial wound.” 

They’re in the examination room of the Batcave and Dick is perched on the exam table. According to her, he’d been conscious even after getting hit, but confused and not making much sense. 

He’s out of his suit and into a shirt and sweats. Leslie’s given him injections of ketorolac and cortisone, and that’s reduced the pain somewhat. He stares at himself in the mirror on the wall as Leslie irrigates and cleans the burn. 

Every part of his suit is fire retardant. But he’s not Jason. His whole face isn’t covered. The domino mask had shielded his eyes, thank god, but the left side of his face, from his cheekbone down to his jaw, is raw and blistered. 

He looks away from the mirror and meets Leslie’s gaze. She seems tired, but she’s here like she always is. They don’t thank her enough for that, he thinks. 

“It's actually a positive sign that you feel pain,” Leslie continues. “The most severe burns destroy the nerve endings, rendering the wound insensate.” 

“That’s good news.”

“But, Dick, I’m not a dermatologist,” Leslie says. “To minimize the chance of scarring, you need to see one. They have technology I don’t have access to.” 

Dick looks down at his hands. They’re not burnt. Small mercies. He wouldn’t be able to function without them. 

“You’ve dealt with plenty of our burns before.”

“Yes,” she says, “but they’ve been minor, and never on the face. You boys have always been lucky in that regard.” She pauses in concentration as she affixes a dressing to his face. Then, “Although you all go out of your way to look for trouble, so it’s not so much luck as it is the technology in your suits.” 

Dick looks at the suit in question, crumpled into a chair across the room. It had gotten away with a few scorch marks on the exterior, but nothing that had damaged its internal integrity and protection. He spares a brief thought for Alfred, who’ll be the one repairing it.

“Do you think it’s going to? Scar, I mean.” 

“I haven’t magically become a dermatologist in the last sixty seconds.” He doesn’t say anything, and she sighs. “I can’t tell you for certain. All people heal differently. If it does, I don’t think it’ll be anything serious. These new hydrogel dressings are great and young people tend not to scar as badly as those who are older.” 

“So in other words, Bruce would be screwed?” 

She laughs. Good. That’s his job. It’s always been his job to make people laugh. Then she pats him on the shoulder, and he hops off the examination table. 

“Listen,” she says, back to seriousness, “there’s always the possibility that it’ll leave more scars than I can predict. You should strongly consider going to a dermatologist.” 

“No.” 

She knows him better than to ask him why. And even if she did ask, he’s not sure he’d have an answer. It’s just-- they’ve never gone to specialists for any _other_ superficial wounds like this, and it leaves a rotten taste in his mouth to think that his fuckup is so extraordinary that it needs special doctors to fix. 

He hadn’t even been hurt in an actual fight. No, he’d decided to turn his back to the action for a dog. Which, okay, that’s fine-- the dog had needed help. But Bruce wouldn’t have done it, and neither would Jason or Tim, not until it was safe to do so, at least. Damian might have, but he’s a child and so it’s not fair to use him as a point of comparison.

And everyone knew he’d gotten blindsided by a baseball bat that he’d normally have seen coming whilst in a dead sleep. It couldn’t even be qualified as an accident, or a mistake, because he’d _chosen_ to stop and help the dog, and so… why should he act like this is anything other than his fault? 

“Hey,” Leslie says. “Stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking and listen. You took a good conk to the head so I want you on brain rest for the next two days. No TV, no computers, no cell phones, no books. No sparring, no workouts. You know how it goes.” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

"Change your dressings twice a day. Use the Carrasyn underneath. And for god’s sake take your antibiotics and the prednisone, too. If it hurts, take a Norco. I’ll see you again in two days.” 

“Thanks, Leslie.” 

“Any time, kid.” 

Bruce is waiting for him as he exits the examination room. He rounds on him the way he always does when he’s feeling too emotionally constipated to say, _Hey, let’s talk for a moment_ , but Dick keeps walking. Bruce follows him doggedly. 

Which reminds him. 

“What happened to the dog?” 

“Dick--”

“What _happened_. To. The dog?” 

“The dog wasn’t on our list of priorities.” 

Typical Batman non-answer. 

“So in other words you don’t know.”

“I presume it ran off into the city.”

“Well that’s shitty. It’s going to get hit by a car or die of its burns.” 

Or, worse, it might be recaptured by its shithead ‘owner’, whom Dick hates even more now than he had before. 

“Dick--” 

“We could have taken it home with us.” 

Realistically, Titus had never been around other dogs and was entirely too rambunctious to keep company with a convalescent, traumatized stray. Still, it’s the principle of the thing. 

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder and spins him around. Dick hates it, the way his body knows it’s Bruce and doesn’t resist. If any other person tried that, up to and including the other Bats, he’d have shrugged out of their clutch with his typical flexibility and grace and just _kept going._

But no. Bruce is always the exception. 

Now he’s looking Dick straight in the eyes, mouth set in a grim line. His hair is ruffled from air drying after the customary post-patrol shower.

“Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he says. “It’s just a burn. _It’s_ fine.”

Except it’s not. And Bruce knows it, the same way he knows everything. His expression hasn’t changed, but it doesn’t have to. He and Bruce have worked together so much and so often that sometimes it seems like they communicate telepathically. 

“Okay, I look like a knockoff Two-Face,” Dick says. “You don’t have to sugar-coat it.” 

“Dick, it’s not like that.” 

“It is, Bruce, and you know it. Better go ahead and make up something to tell the press.” 

“It’s going to be okay. We’ll get you to the best dermatologist in the city. We’ll keep it from scarring.”

“I already told Leslie that I’m not going.”

“That’s just ridiculous. Of course you are.”

And there it is: insisting on things like he’s the damn king of the world. Which he might as well be, as rich as he is and being a key member of the Justice League and blah blah blah, but right now…

Right now Dick just doesn’t have the patience. His head’s throbbing and his face hurts and he feels vaguely nauseated. Maybe if he vomits all over Bruce, he’ll get the message. 

“I’m not _fucking_ going.” 

Because really. What would they say? He could see it now. Even if the dermatologist and their staff didn’t break the inevitable and mandatory NDA, then they’d still have to deal with the paparazzi. Jason loves to read those trashy publications aloud, especially the parts featuring the Wayne family, and Dick pictures him announcing the headlines in that silly voice he puts on. 

_Wayne heir gets into fight with Russian model and her hair dryer!_

_Dick Grayson slapped in face with skillet? Insiders reveal!_

_Not so hot? Rare skin disease leaves Grayson looking cooked!_

Bruce doesn’t bother with a reply. He looks unimpressed. Dick rarely cusses, and even more rarely cusses at Bruce, who had always said, _When you curse, you show you that you are unable to express yourself in more refined ways_. Dick’s almost 100% sure that the phrase originated with Alfred. 

He exhales all the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “You can let go of me, you know. I’m not going to run away.” 

“You were doing a good impression of it earlier,” Bruce says, steering them towards a pair of computer chairs. When Dick sits, he removes his hand. "Now, how are you?” 

Oh, Dick realizes. This is Worried Bruce. Worried Bruce makes an appearance whenever one of them happens to be severely injured.

“Is everyone alright?” he asks. 

As a result of the concussion, he doesn’t remember much of the night before he’d been hit, and certainly nothing after it, at least until when he came to active consciousness on an exam table with Lesley shining a light into his eyes. 

But if someone had gotten hurt because of _him_ , because of rushing to come get him after his own idiocy got him into trouble, well--

“Everybody’s just fine,” Bruce says, and he wouldn’t lie about that, but Dick can’t help his residual suspicion.

“Then where _is_ everyone?” 

“It’s almost six AM. I made Tim and Damian go to bed, although knowing them, they’re eavesdropping on us right this moment _when they should be asleep_.” 

Pretending that he's aware of whatever trickery the kids are up to has always been one of Bruce’s parenting techniques. Tim's a little old to fall for it now, but Dick's used it himself on Damian, and he's not ashamed to say that it's effective.

“What about Jason?”

Bruce gives a distinctly un-Batman-like wave with his hands. “He’s wherever he goes when he’s not here. Maybe home. I didn’t ask and I’m not psychic.” 

Dick blinks at him. He’s still a bit slow in the cognitive department, but at least he’s lucid enough to realize it. 

“Who saved me?” 

“I did,” Bruce says. “I was closest.” 

“You weren’t hurt?” 

“No, Dick, I’m fine and so is everyone else.” 

“Then why are you worried?” 

“You were _injured_ , Dick.” Bruce says it with a certain heaviness that just doesn’t seem to go along with the situation.

“I have a bit of a burn and got knocked on the head.” 

Bruce heaves a sigh and looks skyward with an expression that seems reserved solely for exasperated parents. “We’ll have this conversation later. You’re not thinking clearly.” 

“ _You’re_ not thinking clearly,” Dick shoots back, which is absolutely juvenile, and he knows it. Bruce knows it too, because he chuckles and gets Dick back onto his feet.

“It’s time for you to go to sleep, bud,” and then they’re walking off toward the elevator. They arrive upstairs and Dick’s feeling groggy already, as if leaving the Cave drained what little energy he'd had.

Bruce says something and he just hums, following him down the hallway. Then, as if by magic, he’s in bed, and the lights are off.

Sleep comes quickly.

* * *

It's early afternoon the next day when he’s woken up by Tim and Damian coming down the hall. It’s amazing how they manage to be so stealthy in uniform and yet have all the grace of buffalo when they move through the house together. 

Their footsteps stop outside the door. They’re whispering vehemently back and forth. Dick doesn’t have to see them to know what it looks like; he’s watched their altercations a thousand times. Tim has his hand in a vice grip around Damian’s elbow, and Damian _could_ get free but has instead settled for digging his sharp little nails into Tim’s wrist. Their noses are most likely no more than a foot apart and he’d bet $5 that each of them are staring daggers into the other, faces twisted into near-identical grimaces.

He hears Tim hiss, “Just don’t say anything rude, Demon,” then Damian throws back, “I was raised with class, unlike _you_ , orphan.” 

There’s a pause and some shuffling. One of them has tried to slap the other upside the head. Then there’s quiet, and a few moments later a knock at his door.

“Who is it?” Dick calls, as if he hadn’t been aware of them five minutes ago. The door opens and Tim and Damian enter. Tim holds a small, colorful basket of things in one hand and Damian’s arms are folded across his chest. 

“Richard,” Damian says without preamble, “we would like you to know that you are not entirely worthless without your Jezebel-like attractiveness.” 

Tim elbows him so hard that he stumbles into Dick’s nightstand. Damian catches himself and moves to launch back at him, but he glances at Dick and stills. 

“What he _means_ _to say_ ,” Tim says, leveling a glare at the boy beside him, “is that we don’t care if it scars or heals completely or whatever else it might do as long as you’re happy.” 

Dick lifts the right side of his mouth into a smile. It doesn’t hurt much if he only moves one side of his face. He remembers the pain meds, and resolves to take one when they leave.

“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be okay.” Then, to cut the awkwardness short, “What’s in the basket?” 

Tim steps forward and sets it on the nightstand, then pulls out a card and hands it to Dick. “We all signed a get-well card for you…”

He wonders who’d made the trip to get the card. Given their line of work it would make sense to keep “Hope You Feel Better” and “Get Well Soon” cards in stock somewhere at the Manor, because they got injured _all the fucking time_ , but they didn’t and had never bothered with things like that, because injuries were normal… except, apparently, this one. 

“This is a nice gesture, guys. Thanks.”

“We put some of your favorite snacks in there,” Tim says. 

He glances over to the basket. There are a couple of bottles of beer stuffed in amongst travel-size bags of cereal, and then various little things nestled in between. 

Damian adds, “I selected a most exquisite chocolate for you, Richard.” 

Dick wants to say something more. He does. He wants to be the overenthusiastic, overexcitable big brother who manages to make everyone roll their eyes with his antics. He can’t find it within himself to do it. 

Tim shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Bruce said to tell you he’s sorry he’s not here. He stopped by earlier, and you were asleep, and then he had to go to work.” 

“I’ll send him a text later,” Dick says, and then stops himself at their united front of reproach. “I mean, I _won’t_ text him, because that violates Leslie’s orders.”

“Indeed,” Damian says, shooting a hateful glance at Dick’s phone on the night table. He seems about ready to snatch it when Tim interrupts, grabbing his arm again. 

“Anyway," Tim says, as if he’s not holding on to resentful preteen, “we’ll let you get back to your… stuff. We just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing.”

How he’s doing. As if he has twenty broken bones instead of a single slightly crispy face. If he were in a better state of mind, he’d be touched. 

Tim pulls Damian out of the room just before he begins yowling with rage, which Dick appreciates. His head hurts, and the renewed quiet is welcome. He reaches for a Norco and downs it with the waiting glass of water. Then he rolls over and goes back to sleep. 

* * *

Later that evening, Damian comes by again. This time he’s in his pajamas, and he’s clutching Alfred the cat to his chest. The feline in question looks unamused, but doesn’t struggle as Damian enters the room and plops him down on the bed near Dick’s feet. 

“I have brought you Alfred as a get-well present,” Damian declares. “The Egyptians worshiped Bast as a goddess of both war and health, and therefore a cat is an appropriate offering for a warrior such as yourself who has been wounded in battle and is now recovering.” 

“You’re lending him to me?” Dick wiggles his toes under the covers and Alfred’s attention focuses on the movement. “Don’t you think he’ll miss you?”

Damian doesn’t seem to have thought of that. He sits down next to Alfred, watching as the cat begins to paw at Dick’s feet. After a moment, he speaks. 

“You shall leave your door cracked, so that he may seek out my company if he wishes.”

It’s sweet. Very sweet, actually. A couple of years ago Damian would have been cajoling him for his weakness at having been burned in the first place. 

“Thank you, Damian. Really.” 

“You must know that I do not have faith in ancient superstitions,” Damian clarifies quickly, a touch of chagrin coloring his voice. 

“Of course not,” Dick reassures him. “But I appreciate the thought behind it. And Alfred will help to keep me company tonight, I’m sure.” 

“Yes, that was my intention.” He hesitates, then gets off the bed. “Goodnight, Richard.” 

“Goodnight, Dami. Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” 

Damian scoffs at that as he walks out the door, leaving it ajar for Alfred. Dick lies back in bed. He itches to get up, move around, _do something_ , but he has doctor’s orders, and he might as well pretend to care. 

* * *

He’s out of it, somewhere between dozing and actual sleep, when Jason approaches. The old floorboards creak under his weight; he’s wearing those lugged boots that Alfred insists will end up ruining the hall runners.

Unlike the boys, who blunder through the manor with inexplicable yet unintentional noise, Jason moves with knowledge of his own size. He’d been an awkward teenager, with large hands and larger feet and a body that hadn’t caught up yet, but now, in his second life, he’s big, bigger than Bruce, and his walk is deliberate and controlled, and so damn _heavy_. It’s almost like the beat of a war drum; he could silence it if he wanted, but it’s both a signal and a warning: _I’m here_.

Dick finds it more comforting than he should; three years ago they’d been at each other’s throats, and in a confined space he’s at a serious disadvantage if things come down to a fight. But if Jason were here with the intent to cause harm, Dick would never have heard him coming to begin with. 

In that way, Jason had tamed himself. 

“You look like shit,” says Jason by way of greeting. It’s refreshing, his bluntness. He already has a lighter and cigarette in hand. 

“Can you not smoke in here?” 

“Can you not be a priss for five fucking minutes?” Jason goes over to the window and opens it, then perches on the wide sill. There’s silence, and then, “How’re you feeling, anyway?” 

“I’m fine,” he says, and it’s mostly true. “Tim and Damian seem more concerned about it than I am.” 

“You’re their beloved big brother. Of course they’re gonna have a conniption.” 

Dick wants to argue. He wants to say that Jason is their big brother too, and that they’d behave just the same way about him, but deep down, some dirty little part of him knows it’s not true. He’s never seen anyone in the family react this way, to anything-- so ginger and delicate, tiptoeing around the truth of the injury with not so much grace as extreme and painful awareness. 

_You’ll be up on your feet in no time._ That one’s a standard for wounds that leave them laid up, along with _The more you rest now, the quicker you’ll be back_. Above all, the statements are meant to minimize the indignity of being useless and keep far away from the reality of how easily things can turn life-threatening. 

They’ve all been badly hurt, in more places and in more ways than they should ever have to deal with, and the rules have never changed, so what is it about _now_ , this particular injury, that has left everyone acting so strangely?

“Too much of a conniption,” Dick says finally. “Damian even loaned me Alfred.” 

The cat had fallen asleep on his feet. It isn’t the most comfortable feeling, but Dick hadn’t had the heart to move him, and the weight and warmth are actually soothing, even though the position has made Dick's leg fall asleep, too.

“Well, on the bright side,” Jason says contemplatively, taking a long drag of his cigarette, “until now you’ve always been the pretty one. I guess you can relax, let someone else step up to the plate for a while.” 

That upsets him. He doesn’t know why it upsets him. It isn’t the implication that he’s no longer _pretty_ , per se, because despite what most believe he’s never been that vain, and besides, his body is objectively gorgeous even if his face is more than a little fucked up.

No, it’s something else. Something that churns his stomach even while he struggles to identify it. 

“I bet it’ll be Tim who takes your place as the face of the family,” Jason continues, blowing smoke out of his nose. “It _has_ to be him, really.” 

Dick stares at him, a wordless request to elaborate. 

“Damian will grow up to look just like Bruce, lucky little asshole, but he’s too young and he’s rude as fuck, besides. And I’m still technically a corpse, so I’m right out. It has to be Tim. He’s been a replacement before, so I think he’ll do just fine.” 

“... What are you talking about?” 

“Don’t be fuckin’ stupid,” he says. “Why do you think you’re the one B chooses when we need someone charmed?” 

“Maybe it’s because I’m the only one who isn’t awkward as hell around people who aren’t Bats?” 

Damian’s only 12, so he’s partially excused from the confines of normal social behavior. Tim _can_ hold a conversation with others, but he just doesn’t _want_ to, occupied as he is with other things. And Jason...

“Well,” Jason allows, “that might be part of it, too. You can’t blame _me_ though. I’m from Crime Alley. Don't know nothin’ ‘bout politeness.” For that last part he had keyed up his accent, the accent that’s almost entirely faded, and for a moment Dick feels like he’s seventeen again, staring down at a seething Jason Todd who’s all fight and no trust.

Things have changed so, so much.

They keep talking after that, but Dick’s not paying attention. Jason’s words rebound in his mind, over and over, and Jason must pick up on his distraction, because after a few more minutes, he gives a gruff, “Heal up, asshole,” and leaves. 

After Jason’s gone, his presence lingers in the room. Traces of smoke remain in the air, though the window is open. The curtains flutter in the night breeze. 

_Why do you think you’re the one B chooses when we need someone charmed?_

That’s easy to answer. He’s the best at getting people to do what he wants, without them even realizing he’s done it. 

That ability has always been with him. Even when he’d been a child at the circus, it had been there, hovering over his shoulder, and when he’d wanted something all he’d needed to do was reach up and pluck it down to use. He was cute, and put together well, and athletic and baby-faced and just so _sweet_. Even the grumpy old sword-swallowing brothers gave in when he came around, gifting him candy bars and cold soda as he watched them practice. He’d been the only child with Haly’s, and so at first he'd attributed his success to that. Just like in the movies with Shirley Temple, smile and say ‘please’ and ye shall receive. 

And if as he’d gotten older, he’d noticed that it didn’t work that way for other people, well, it was just the way it was. Bruce and Alfred had been impervious to it from the start, but all of Bruce’s society friends, and the kids he’d gone to school with, and anyone he’d needed to win to his side-- he managed to connect with them almost immediately, if he wanted. It was so easy. 

And throughout his life, it’s worked. 

Except when it doesn’t. 

* * *

Dick’s in a room with drawn curtains and burning sunlight filters through them. It gives the air a dingy sienna tinge. If he breathes too deeply, he’s sure the air will make him cough. Or maybe it’s just the smoke; a large man stands by the window, lit cigarette in hand. His features are in dark relief against the shades and his silhouette makes him feel so. damn. small.

Someone speaks. It’s not the man. It’s a child’s voice, a boy in his early teens, and too quiet for him to understand. Through the smoke and dirty air he sees a bed parallel to the window, and a boy is lying on it, propped on his elbows and head turned towards the tall man. He’s drawn the blankets up around him and it doesn’t make any sense; why would he do that when it’s so hot in this room, hot enough to scald the flesh from bone? 

He’s panting now, not just from the overwhelming heat but because what he’s smelling isn’t only smoke and dirt. The taste of pennies is on his tongue, pennies and something else that’s a lot like anger. He stands next to the door, knowing that if he could crack it even just a little, cool air would come rushing in.

The boy repeats what he said, and Dick still can’t hear him. The man must have understood because he laughs like he’s said something funny. 

Dick wants to say something too, but all he does is walk forward till he’s standing at the bedside. He watches the boy as he moves his gaze to stare at the ceiling. Even if there were answers as to why he’s being kept this way, it wouldn’t matter. He’s a nice boy, smart and gregarious and loved by everyone, and he’s going to get away, and he doesn’t know this, but now-- but now? He’s not ever going to be anything important. He’s not even going to make it into the evening hours.

He wishes he could feel sorry for him, but like the man, he seems to be lacking in sympathy.

Instead of patting the boy’s arm and telling him that it’ll all be alright (it won’t, it won’t), Dick leans in until they’re shoulder-to-shoulder, his torso twisted to make the strange angle. His hands find the boy’s thin neck amidst the blankets, and then, right over the marks that look like bites, he pushes his thumbs in, hard, with all the strength he’s trained for. He’s not weak. He’s not him.

He hates him, this stupid little boy, the one who let everything happen. He hates that he’s not struggling, not moving, just supine on this bed like a dead thing already. He hates the fact that even so, he’s more alive than Dick will ever be. He hates him and he will give him death, slow, painful, and choking. If he had the time, he’d inflict every misery he deserves. 

* * *

  
“I feel pretty useless,” Dick confesses on the phone to Barbara the next morning. 

He’d called her using voice commands, and it’s not a video chat, so technically he isn’t violating Leslie’s orders of brain rest. And Babs is good to talk to about feelings. She listens without interrupting and doesn’t interject her own experiences or judgements into the conversation.

“Why is that?” she asks. 

He’s sitting in a forgotten back room on the third floor of the Manor-- one he’d discovered at age nine on one of his explorations through the house. It’s only reachable by going through two other rooms, both of which are also ignored by the household, and the door to this one is hidden behind a folding silk screen. The rooms are encased in a fine layer of dust, which he likes because it proves that no one else uses them as a hideout. This suite was once occupied by Bruce’s great-great grandaunt Rose, who was a spinster and known to hide away for weeks at a time. He hopes that she wouldn’t mind him being here, given that he only ever comes here to get away from others. Maybe she would even see him as a kindred spirit. 

“Dick, are you there?” 

“Sorry. I just-- I mean, first of all I can’t go on patrol while I’m like this. Even if Leslie hadn’t ordered me to rest, my face is too noticeable right now. If someone put Nightwing’s burned face together with Dick Grayson’s, then it would all be over.”

“Does this feel different than the other times you've been kept up by injuries?” He doesn’t even hear keys clacking in the background, which means she’s paying her whole attention to him. He’d be embarrassed if he didn’t appreciate it so much. 

“It _is_ different.” 

Over the years he’d collected various of Rose’s trinkets and arranged them all on her vanity. There’s a little pill box decorated with seed pearls, and a bejeweled hair stick carved out of what he suspects is ivory, and several tarnished ballerina figurines made out of sterling silver. There’s a framed photograph of her, too, aged and sepia-toned. In it, she’s wearing an Edwardian dress and a beautiful necklace that currently resides right by the picture. She’s young, around Dick’s age, and her ring finger is bare.

He’d always felt sorry for her-- had she wanted to be married, but been unable to find a suitor? Or had she rejected the notion of romance and domesticity, and been hemmed in by the mores of the time? Either way, she’d lived out her life in relative isolation, and now her rooms and belongings followed suit. 

“Why do you say that?” 

“Half my face is fucked up.”

“I know that’s upsetting,” she says, “but how does that make you useless?” 

He thinks of Jason and his careless words, and how simple he’d made it seem, laying it all out as a dichotomy. Either he was pretty, and he did the _convincing_ , or he was ugly, and others had to. He looks down at the sterling ballerinas, and wonders if people would say they were still beautiful even through their tarnish. 

“I’m not _pretty_ any more,” he spits. “That’s always been my claim to fame.” 

She’s silent for several moments, and when she speaks, her words are unusually deliberate.

“... Dick, it’s true that, conventionally speaking, you’re very attractive.” 

“Was,” he corrects. 

She ignores him. “However, I think that it’s not only hurtful to yourself, but also willfully ignorant, to say that that’s your main attribute.” 

“What else even is there,” he grouses, and even to his own ears it sounds like he’s fishing for compliments. Logically, he knows differently, but right now-- right now, it’s as if nothing else has ever mattered or will ever again. 

“For starters, you’re an amazingly talented gymnast and acrobat. I know you know that, even though it might not feel like it.” 

Dick thinks of his parents, and then of how they’d react to see him this way. It’s disrespectful to even entertain the idea that the Flying Graysons hadn’t been amazing, and so what would they say now, hearing him mope about like this? They’d always been so loving, but they’d never met the adult him. They’d be disappointed.

“You’re a good leader,” she continues. “You make everyone feel heard, and even when there’s serious conflicts in the group, you keep them working towards the goal without seeming like a dictator.”

Like Bruce, it went unsaid.

“And you’ve got a natural way with people that few others have. People _like_ you, Dick. You’re fun to be around, and you find equal ground with everyone you meet.” 

Dick thinks of the galas where, as a child, he’d smiled at the old ladies and received squeals of delight. He thinks of the nightclubs he’d ventured into in disguise, and how the clubgoers rushed to put their hands on his body. He thinks of the easy grins and casual conversations, and how people licked their lips and eyed him appreciatively when he was just trying to talk. 

“And, rarest of all, Damian adores you. Can you honestly say that he feels that way about anyone else?” 

That’s true. Damian does look up to him, though he’d never admit it. The kid’s come so far, and even if Dick’s not proud of very much, he can feel proud of that. 

But then. 

Damian doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know about the times that Dick’s just laid down and took it, and how sometimes he’d cried and wished that he were dead, and how at the end of things, despite Babs’ insistence and what he’s sure everyone else would say if he asked, he’s really only good because he’s _pretty_. 

And now even that’s derailed. He looks at himself in Rose’s vanity mirror and though the dressing obscures his view, he knows what lies underneath. The cracked skin and inflamed blisters. The scabs that are so dark red they look almost black. The blood that wells up every so often, even when he’s careful not to move that side of his face.

It all comes down to one thing. 

He’s worthless now. 

Because if he’s not good for looks, if he’s not useful for the only thing he’s ever done… if he’s not good for that, then there’s just nothing left. All the things that Babs just attributed to him (charisma, leadership, skill) don’t matter because they’re lies. All lies. He’s not good or kind or intelligent. People don’t love him because of his personality or his abilities; the only thing that he’s ever been useful for is his body. 

And if he doesn’t have that, then where can he go? What can he do? Nothing, of course, and nowhere.

* * *

That afternoon he meets Leslie down in the Cave for his two-day follow up.

Leslie knows. In fact, Leslie is the _only_ one who knows, and even she doesn’t have the specifics. She'd been the one to treat him, after he'd escaped from Slade, and though he'd denied it blindly, she knows what happened. She's given him the courtesy of privacy about it, and at his insistence had concealed it from Bruce. And the times he'd seen her after Mirage and Tarantula, he'd asked her for confidential STI screenings. Blood tests are a standard part of the superhero workup, done frequently and preventatively, due to cross-blood contamination and accidental sticks from thugs and other hazards of the trade, so it wasn't too unusual-- but he's sure his demeanor had given her some clues about the exact circumstances.

She knew him. He wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t the type to merrily sow his seed without regard for the consequences. And besides, with Slade, he’d been young. Too young, far too young, to be having sex. Sure, people always claimed that kids started earlier and earlier these days, but-- 

He’d been fourteen.

“I won’t tell Bruce if you don’t want me to,” she’d said. He’d been so infinitely grateful for that, he would have fallen down and kissed her feet if she’d asked.

She’s peeled off the dressing already and is currently assessing it. 

“Too soon to tell, of course, but it looks like it’s healing nicely. I told you these new hydrocolloid dressings were amazing.” 

“Leslie,” he says absently, “I think I might be disappointed if it doesn’t scar.” 

“Why is that?” 

And maybe it’s the pain meds, but he’s feeling frank today. 

“If I’m ugly, then maybe everyone will stop trying to molest me.” 

_Molest_. He says it with sarcasm. And it’s not as if molestation is funny, and he’d _never_ take that tone with a victim of even so much as an assgrab, but it’s easier. Easier than saying “rape”. Because if he doesn’t say that word, then it’s not--

She’s finished putting the new dressing on, and is now standing still before him. 

“Molest you?” 

“Well,” he corrects, “I mean, several people have already been _successful_ in said molestation, but I’m talking about going forward. No more honeypotting for me.” 

She is very quiet, subdued even in the way she takes off her gloves. She tosses them into the trash and says, “Have you spoken with anyone about this?” 

Dick lets out a little laugh.

“You’re the only one who’s ever had an idea,” he says, “and even you don’t know the details.” 

“I’ll listen, if you’d like to tell me.” 

“I really wouldn’t,” Dick says flatly. 

“It must have been important if you’d thought to mention it.” 

Her hands are soft and cold when they reach for his, and he doesn’t have the energy to pull away.

“I’ve never broken doctor-patient confidentiality, and I don’t intend to start now.”

“Why didn’t you?” he says. “Why didn’t you, when I was a kid?” 

“You mean after Slade,” she says, and he nods. 

“... If it had been outside of a kidnapping situation, and if you had been a normal child, I’d have reported it to the authorities. Depending on the circumstances, and on if I suspected him, I may or may not have told Bruce.” 

“Bruce would _never_ \--” Dick starts, and Leslie squeezes his hand. 

“I know,” she says. “But regardless, you weren’t a normal child, and I trusted in you to make some decisions for yourself. I honestly didn’t believe telling Bruce would have helped you. I’m not sure if that was the right decision, but it’s the one I made, and here we are.” 

“If he’d found out, he probably would have committed murder.” 

And it’s not like Dick hadn’t fantasized about it, in all those pathetic moments under Slade’s hands, but… killing someone would have shattered Bruce into a thousand pieces, never to be put together again. 

“I don’t think there’s a ‘probably’ in that scenario, Dick.” 

And that’s fucked. That’s really fucked, because it’s true. Bruce hadn’t killed the Joker after Jason’s death, but Dick knows with absolute certainty that he would have killed Slade if he’d ever discovered the truth. Dick is his firstborn. He’s forever tried to downplay it, because the others are insecure enough already, but he’s Bruce’s unintentional favorite. He always has been. 

It makes him sick, really sick, because Jason _died_ , which is way more serious than a little nonconsent between him and Slade. It can’t be Bruce’s fault, though. It’s his. 

He withdraws his hand. She lets it go. 

“I could have just been being stupid. Maybe it was all on me to begin with. You don't know for sure. I could have agreed to it all." 

“I’m sorry for being blunt, but you’d just come back from four months of being a supervillain’s hostage. That hardly speaks of consent.” 

“Three months,” Dick corrects. “It was only three.” 

“That’s not ‘only’ three, Dick. That’s three.” 

He can’t bear it, this ridiculous gentleness. He wants to break it, take it in his hands and smash it against the wall. 

“... He wasn’t the last,” he says, “but he was the worst. It wasn’t about the sex.” 

“It rarely is.” 

And he knows that. He _knows_ that. How many rape scenes has he responded to over the years? How many instances of domestic violence, heard from across fire escapes or through cheap windows? How many times has he been in Leslie’s exact spot, comforting someone with these same words?

“No,” he says. “But this was _different_. The, the other two… it was a superficial thing, like they’d thought of it in the moment and just decided to do it because they could, and because it would hurt me. But with him… it was all calculated, right from the start.”

“That sounds very difficult, Dick. I think you’re a strong person to be here today.”

He laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but he laughs. It’s a mean and harsh sound, like the feedback of an intercepted radio. It doesn’t disturb her; she's waiting patiently, watching him. 

After he gets control of himself again, he says, “This isn’t what our appointment was supposed to be about. I’m sorry for distracting from the order of business.”

“ _You_ are the order of business,” she says, authority flashing over her face. “I know it’s uncomfortable, but let’s go back for a minute. Can you tell me what you meant by ‘honeypotting’?” 

“You know what I meant. I’m charming, and _pretty_ , and so if we need someone to get details from a thug, or some socialite, or whoever… it only makes sense that I’m the one who goes.” 

She’s quiet again. He sees the effort she’s making, in her open posture and non-judgement and careful words, and not for the first time he feels like he doesn’t deserve something like this. 

“Does this involve sleeping with them?” 

“Never in my real identity,” he says, and it’s true. Dick Grayson and Nightwing may have the public perception of being the village bicycles, but he’s never used his _own_ persona for things like… that. It’s always been a disguise, whether in the cape world or the normal one. 

“What about in your ‘fake’ identity?” Her voice is still purposefully neutral. He wonders if that’s why he’s able to keep talking about it. 

“Not often. But sometimes the job requires it.” 

And isn’t that an easier way than saying that he’s a slut. _The job requires it._ Now he just sounds like a call girl, someone who’s perfectly happy to provide simple company but who’ll also get down to the nitty gritty of fucking a client if they have to. 

God, it’s all so _dirty_. He’s surprised she can even listen to it. 

“Do you want to do it?” 

“What, the honeypotting or the sex? I don’t enjoy either, but it’s needed.” 

Some he can almost pretend are people he actually wouldn’t mind sleeping with, not that he’d know much about pure consensual sex. And others… well, it’s a good thing he’s got a high tolerance for discomfort and is a pro at keeping a smile on his face.

There’d been a trick, back in the circus. All the performers, he and his parents included, would smear Vaseline on their teeth before the show started, and it kept them smiling all night long no matter how much their faces began to hurt. 

Over the years he's developed the mental equivalent of that, too.

“You mentioned the potential scarring in connection with the molestation and honeypotting.” 

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Tell me anyway.” 

He does, even though it seems needless. Anyone should be able to figure it out. If he’s scarred up, then he’s no longer his pretty self. And if he’s not pretty, then there’s no attraction on the part of others, which means he’ll be useless for getting information out of people or getting them on his good side or whatever the hell, and that means…

“I’ll be free,” he finishes. “I won’t have to worry about whether or not a person wants to have sex with me when they say ‘hi’.” 

“Is anyone forcing you to do this?” 

“You mean Bruce?” She doesn’t respond, which means _yes_. “Bruce couldn’t force me into a paper bag and he knows it.” 

Well, that might be a slight exaggeration. Dick’s strength as a fighter lies in his ability to strike quickly and evade hits. He’s agile, and versatile, but he’ll never win in a contest of strength or ability to absorb blows. As with Jason, he’d be out of luck if, in a serious fight, Bruce got his hands on him and subsequently managed to keep him in range. 

It would be just like with Slade. 

Utter helplessness.

“Do you think the dynamics between you and the rest of the family will change if it does end up scarring?” 

And this. This is what has been bothering him. More than the feeling of worthlessness. More than the contradictory hope that it’ll scar. More than his anger at himself for being so fucking stupid.

“I’m worried,” he says, but doesn’t finish. Technically it’s still a complete sentence. Subject, verb. Complete.

“What about?” 

It’s like trying to speak while underwater. He thinks of the words, and what he wants to say, but when he rehearses them in his mind they sound ridiculous. 

“I’m afraid one of the others might have to take my spot,” he says, quick and furtive. “And I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help it.”

Leslie closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Do you feel like one of them might be forced into the role?” 

“God, no. Like I said, Bruce would never _make_ us do it. But it doesn’t change the fact that the topic comes up every now and again. If I can’t do it anymore, then Tim or Jason might, and I don’t want that for them.” 

He feels bile raising in his throat and resists the urge to throw up. First, it would upset Leslie more than she already was, and second, he’d ruin the dressing and she’d have to replace it. So he tries to ignore it and swallows it back down. 

He’s really good at swallowing distasteful things. 

“I don’t want to talk about this any more,” he says, and if that sounds like an excuse… well. A migraine has started, and he wants to vomit, and his face is hurting. Not that it’s ever stopped hurting, in these past few days, but right now it’s throbbing with enthusiasm.

It all seems like a good enough reason to him, and it must work for Leslie too, because she nods.

“That was a lot to talk about. Thank you for sharing it with me.” 

He wants to laugh again but doesn’t. She should be revolted, not thankful. These kinds of stories are the ones meant to remain untold forever.

* * *

Do you know why I chose you?” Slade asks one day-- night-- wheneverthefuck. He’s at his desk with his Beretta. It’s broken down into all its component parts, extractor and firing pin and striker, and even so it seems more whole than Dick’s felt in weeks.

The room smells of solvent and gun oil. 

“Because you’re the best of your cute little team. Ah, the rest have powers, but you, you’re still the best. And if I can have you, in every sense of the word… then what chance do the rest of them have?” 

Dick’s lying in the bed, one arm over his stomach and the other holding the blankets up high. If he keeps himself covered up he feels less like a traitor. It’s been thirty or forty minutes now since the last ministrations, and if he doesn’t move then it doesn’t hurt.

He’s become very good at not moving. 

He tries to keep his gaze on the ceiling. It’s become a familiar sight. There’s no cracks to follow or tiles to count but even so, he's sure he could pick it out of a lineup of ceilings. _Yes_ , he’d tell the investigator. _Yes, that’s the one. I can’t prove it, but I know_ \--

“I asked you a question,” Slade says mildly. “Does Bruce let you get away with ignoring him?” 

Without meaning to, he looks away from the ceiling. He locks eyes with Slade for just a second before diverting his gaze to the window. The curtains are always closed, and he’s never seen out of it, but it’s the farthest away he can get from here. 

“He never says things like that in the first place.” 

Slade snorts. “As if that’s a basis for comparison. He’s never had his cock inside you either-- or am I wrong?” 

Dick pulls the covers up over his shoulders. He knows it’s childish but he wants to roll over, curl into a ball, close his eyes. It would be comforting, but he won’t let himself be seen as weaker than he already is. 

“They’ll find out about this,” Dick says, and he still halfway believes it. “This isn’t going to last forever.” And that, that he _has_ to believe. 

If he stares out into the future all he sees is Slade’s bed, Slade’s room, Slade’s hideout, and the endless cavalcade of filthy deeds that would make Bruce’s mouth tighten and Alfred look away. They’d step back in disgust and wonder at how they could ever have been so wrong about him. 

He’s spent his whole life saving people and right now he can’t even save himself. Right now he doesn’t think anyone else would want to save him, either. 

Slade gets up and comes back to the bed. He catches Dick’s look of dismay and chuckles.

“Blame the enhancements,” he says, and then it starts again. 

* * *

Leslie had prescribed another two days of brain rest, and Dick’s bored. He doesn’t need technology to occupy himself, never has, but when exercise and reading are also out of the question, he’s left with little to do. He’d felt exhausted after Leslie’s visit, and had napped for a few hours, but now he’s wide awake and with nothing to do but think. 

For that reason he’s grateful to Tim when he comes by. Tim’s quiet, but once he gets started on a topic all Dick needs to do is sit back and listen companionably. 

“Hey, Timmy,” Dick says when Tim peeks in through the door. “Come on in. Not like I’m doing anything important.”

“Thanks, Dick.” 

Tim picks up the desk chair and moves it close to the bedside table, then sits down. Dick realizes he’s not touched the gift basket, which has been sitting there since he’d received it. He hopes Tim doesn’t feel bad about it. He’d been the one to deliver it, after all. 

“So,” Tim says, sliding his socked foot along the hardwood. He won’t look up from the floor.

“So?...” 

This is weird. Tim’s not known for articulation issues; Damian’s the one who has difficulties saying anything that’s not a curse or an insult. Dick reaches deep for the ‘comedic big brother’ side of himself, which feels like it’s been buried for a long, long time. It’s an effort, but he manages. 

“You got a new girlfriend? Or boyfriend? Have you come here to spill all the ‘deets’, as you young whippersnappers say these days?” 

That gets Tim to look up, a small smile on his face. “Dick, the word ‘deets’ is about thirty years old, and you _know_ it.” The smile drops though, and again he seems unable to meet Dick’s eye. 

“Tim,” he sighs, “Listen. I’m not you, and I’m not Bruce. I can’t guess what’s going on by the color of your shirt.” 

Tim shifts, and then… 

“ _Youhavetopromisenottofreakout_ ,” he blurts.

It takes Dick a moment to translate.

“Okay, but freak out about what? Is anyone hurt?” God help them if they’d failed to mention that someone had gotten injured, the bunch of hypocrites. 

“Um, no,” Tim manages. “That’s not it. It’s just, we’re all worried about you, and--”

“Jesus Christ, there’s _nothing wrong with me_ except the fact that you’re all acting like there is!”

The sudden silence rings in his ears. Tim’s staring at him, shocked.

He’s never raised his voice to the boys. Not even when Tim had been his most stubborn, or Damian his brattiest. In those moments he’d always managed to take a breath, count to ten, and start over.

“God, Timmy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

“That was freaking out,” Tim says quietly. “That was freaking out and you haven’t even heard the part that would give you a justifiable _reason_ to freak out.”

For ten seconds, Dick takes in a breath so deep it feels like his lungs will burst. He holds it for ten seconds, then exhales for another ten. By Tim’s expression, he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats once he’s done. “I won’t yell again. I can’t promise I won’t get upset, but I won’t yell at you again.” 

Tim’s worrying his lip with his teeth. 

“Okay,” he says. “But I’m going to hold you to that.”

Dick looks down and is glad his hands are under the sheets. He clenches a hand experimentally. The movement doesn’t show. Good. 

“Damian heard you talking to Dr. Thompkins.”

Dick chokes, gathers his breath, chokes again. It’s not the end of the world. Damian must have caught the very tail end of things, that’s all, and overheard some stuff that would be upsetting but not earth-shattering. After this Dick will have to find him, explain that he was just feeling a little down about his appearance, and reassure him that everything’s fine. 

“He shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on me,” Dick says finally, and even to him it’s an obvious misdirection. “He knows better.” 

Tim looks at him with those bright blue eyes and Dick feels dissected before him. He has to get rid of him. He has to end this conversation. He can’t do this right now. He can’t do this, _ever_. 

“I’d always suspected,” Tim says, “but I was never sure.” 

The world stutters, stops, and freezes into place. Maybe if he doesn’t reply, then this quiet moment will last forever, and he can trick himself into believing that he _did not_ just hear that.

Tim doesn’t give him the luxury of silence. 

“He told Jason too.” 

Fuck. 

“They’re down in the living room right now. My best guess is that they’re going to wait until Bruce gets home, then jump on him.” 

Double fuck. 

“Bruce doesn’t need that,” he says, and to his utter dismay his voice is starting to sway. “I don’t know what Damian thinks he heard, but he had to have misunderstood, and--” 

“You must have never told Bruce,” Tim says, as if Dick hadn’t been speaking. “I can’t imagine he’d have let Slade live.” 

With a dawning sense of horror, he realizes that there will be no getting away from this. He’s cornered, the same way he himself corners criminals in back alleys. No way out. This time he's the dog on the chain, pulling away from a fire he'll never escape. 

Tim’s face is impassive.

“I have a good idea of who the others were. You’d never have cheated on Kori, no matter what the others in the Titans have to say. And after Tarantula you were really messed up. Any of us would have been, but there was something different to you. Something else had happened.” 

“Tim,” he pants, “stop it.” 

He’d promised not to freak out. And if he’s not going to freak out, it has to stop. Otherwise his racing heart is going to explode. He doesn’t have to look beneath the sheets to know that his hands are trembling. 

“It makes sense that you never told. Victims of rape often keep it secret for years out of shame or a feeling that it was their fault.” 

_Victims of rape._

He wasn’t a fucking victim. He’d been an active participant with Mirage, he’d still come when Tarantula had gotten on top of him, and Slade… well, it wasn’t as if he’d tried to resist. Much.

“Tim,” he says again. It feels like he barely has the breath to speak. “Tim. Stop.” 

“Damian got some wrong ideas from overhearing it. He thinks Bruce has been pimping you out against your will in order to get information.”

“Do you believe that?” Dick gasps. That would be the final ignominy, to be seen as such a little bitch that he doesn’t even _fight_ when someone tries to use him. It’s not like that’s something new but-- but-- no one’s ever known before. 

No one has ever known. 

Tim takes his time to reply. When he does, his words are selected the same way a chess player picks the proper piece to move. 

“Bruce can be oblivious to the things he says, and each of us has our own way of interpreting them. We all also have an insatiable need to please him. I think that can result in situations where misunderstandings abound and people get hurt.” 

Dick closes his eyes. He’s sweating and so overwhelmingly hot. It feels like his clothing is soaked through already, and he wants to throw off the blankets, but, just like so long ago, hiding beneath them is all the protection he has against uncomfortable situations. 

He’s not sure how long he stays like that, trying to regulate his breathing and manage the waves of heat coursing through his body. Mercifully, Tim says nothing. 

Until.

Until.

“I think Bruce just got home,” he says, a bit of dread in his voice. “He’s early.” 

Dick snaps his eyes open. In this drawn-out microcosm of a second, he imagines he can hear the great front door open, Bruce come in, take off his coat, and head down the hallway. It’s impossible, of course; it’s too far away for things like that to be heard.

A minute or so passes. Tim’s frozen, a deer in the headlights, and it’s clear from his face that he doesn’t know whether to go downstairs to mediate, or to stay with Dick to ensure he doesn’t do anything rash. 

The living room is a flight of stairs and a couple of hallways away from his bedroom, but even from here he can hear Jason say, voice pitched to project, “Hey Bruce, have a nice day at work?”

Bruce’s reply is inaudible. 

“Good!” Jason bellows. “I’m glad you didn’t, _because you’re a giant fucking asshole_!” 

Damian chimes in something too. He’s not screaming, although it’s close enough. Dick can’t hear the exact words, but it’s something about how Bruce should be ashamed. 

“I told them to control themselves,” Tim whispers, more to himself than anything. He’s distracted by the noise, glancing toward the door, and Dick takes his chance.

He’s fast. He’s always been the fastest in the family, and no one else has his acrobatics. If he weren’t freaking out even he’d be impressed at how, in shorts and barefoot and on the verge of vomiting, he springs out of the bed and front flips to the window, throwing it open in a seamless move before jumping out and performing a triple somersault on his way down. 

He ignores the pain in his feet when he hits the ground and takes off running. 

Tim calls something out to him. It’s indistinct, drowned out by Dick’s own ragged breath and his galloping heartbeat. He doesn’t look back. He’s sprinting across the immaculate lawn and then into the Manor’s surrounding woods. He veers off the trail, dodging tree limbs and jumping over fallen logs, and he runs and runs and runs until he trips over a protruding root and breaks his fall with a forward roll. 

He sits there for a second, chest heaving, and then vomits all over the ground in front of him. He hasn’t eaten much. It’s mostly bile, and after he’s done he tries to spit the taste from his mouth.

It doesn’t work. 

He scoots back to lean against a tree, and he remembers his feet. Now that he’s stopped running, and his adrenaline levels have crashed, they hurt. Really hurt.

He looks down and sees broken skin, ragged toenails, bleeding cuts, embedded thorns. They’re already red and swollen, and from the stabbing pain it’s possible that he broke a metatarsal or two when he'd landed from the window. 

Small price, in order to get the fuck away from what he’d just fled. 

* * *

Dick doesn’t know how long he’s been out there, curled up in the woods like a damn runaway, when dusk approaches. He thinks about going back. The sweat has dried and chilled him, and the nights in Gotham are still brisk this time of year. 

He should have flipped past Tim and gone to Rose’s rooms. Tim would have assumed he’d jumped out a different window, and he could have stayed there in peace with the dead and forgotten, and maybe become one of them, too. 

He’s retrieved from that train of thought by the crunch of approaching footsteps through last year’s dead leaves. 

It’s Bruce. 

Dammit. 

“How’d you find me?” he asks numbly. 

“Tim saw you running into the woods,” Bruce says, “and it wasn’t difficult to follow your trail after that.” 

“He’s a snitch,” Dick mutters. “He shouldn’t have told you.”

He knows it’s unreasonable to say. Tim had to have been worried sick, and Dick’s sure he’s already blaming himself. Hell, if any of the others had ran away in a similar emotional state, Dick would have been the first one to go out looking. He’s done it before.

Bruce settles down onto the ground beside him, neatly avoiding the small puddle of bile. He’s in a bespoke suit that probably cost a year’s worth of rent for a normal person, and now it’s been snagged by briars and stained with mud and ripped near the hem. Just another casualty of Dick’s carelessness.

“Your brothers love you very much. I’m reasonably sure Jason and Damian were ready to lock me in Titus’s crate for the rest of my life, and Tim wasn’t too far behind.”

“He seemed calm enough to me.” 

“Tim reacts differently than Jason and Damian. He’s better at controlling himself. And he certainly wouldn’t have shown his anger to you, given the circumstances.” 

_Given the circumstances_. 

“I’m sorry,” Dick says. He crosses his arms over his raised knees and buries his face into them. “I didn’t mean for this to blow up on you.”

“That is the absolute last thing I care about at this moment,” Bruce says. “Right now I’m focused on you.”

God, Bruce is trying. He always tries. Dick doesn’t deserve it. 

“I’m sorry anyway,” he says again. “I’m sorry I got burned, and I’m sorry I never told you about any of this, and I’m sorry for worrying everyone.”

“Dick. Look at me.” 

He refuses. He’s going to remain right here, in this nice little world created by his closed eyes and cushioning arms, until Bruce gives up and goes away. 

“Dick, please.”

His voice cracks on the ‘please’. Dick looks up in shock and, in the fading light, sees that Bruce’s eyes are glistening. 

He’s seen Bruce cry exactly three times: when Dick had first called him ‘dad’; during the sermon at Jason’s funeral; and after exposure to a new variety of fear gas. 

He really doesn’t want to be the cause of the fourth time. 

“Come on,” he says. “It’s not that bad. I don’t mean to be depressing. I’m just in a funk, that’s all. Forget about it.” 

Bruce doesn’t fall for it, not that he’d expected him to.

“No, Dick, _I’m_ sorry. I didn’t notice when you needed help, and I didn’t investigate Slade deeply enough, and I’ve been pressuring you into having sex with marks without even realizing that I'm doing it.” 

Dick chooses the easiest one to respond to. 

“I didn’t tell you about Slade because if you’d known the truth, you would have hunted him down and killed him.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything. They both know it’s true. 

“And as for the other two, well… they were women. It’s different. I came. I don’t think that it counts if that happens.” 

"That doesn't matter. It's just as serious. You didn't consent."

Dick barks out a laugh. "My body enjoyed it, Bruce. It wasn't _torture_."

"You know how Damian came about,” is all Bruce says, and instantly Dick feels like a piece of shit. 

“God, Bruce, that’s not the same and you know it. You were _drugged_ , and she had you as a prisoner.” 

“I’m not here to compare experiences,” Bruce says. “I’m mentioning it only because I’m not sure what Talia told him about the way he was conceived. From his reaction today, I think he might know more than he’s let on.”

Dick imagines Damian’s little face, twisted up in rage, and the way his voice goes shrill when he’s angry. The Received Pronunciation accent he’d learned from Ra’s and Talia becomes far more prevalent, and he progresses to insults of increasing loquaciousness until it seems like he’s reading straight from a thesaurus. 

“He just misinterpreted what he overheard,” Dick says.

It hurts him to think of Damian that upset. He’s been doing so good recently; he hasn’t had an outburst in a while, and now that winning streak is ruined because Dick decided to have a major malfunction. 

“He told me that I, of all people, should know how it feels,” Bruce says bluntly. “And he’s perfectly correct. I’m _sorry_. I never intended to give you the impression that you needed to seduce people, and I never should have even put you in the situation where you’d think of it to begin with.” 

“I’m fucked up,” Dick says. “It’s not your fault that my mind went there.” 

And now Bruce _is_ crying. He’s silent about it, but the tears have left his eyes and are racing down his face. Then they drop down onto his suit and disappear. 

“Please come back to the house,” and now he’s pleading. “You don’t have to say or do anything. I’ll make sure the boys leave you alone. Just don’t stay out here in the dark with your thoughts. _Please_.”

Dick considers. His toes have lost feeling from the cold. 

“I can’t really walk,” he confesses. “I think my feet got banged up pretty badly.” 

“I’ll carry you,” Bruce says without hesitation. 

“I’m not a little kid anymore.” 

“You’ll always be my son,” and his tone is so heartbreakingly sincere. “I’ll do anything if it means helping you.” 

He doesn’t mean to, but he nods. That’s enough confirmation anyway. Bruce shrugs off his suit jacket and helps him put his unresponsive arms through the sleeves. Then, as if Dick weighs only as much as he did when he was eight, Bruce picks him up and nestles him against his chest. 

He begins to walk, and Dick’s ear is right against his heartbeat. It’s slow and even, despite what some might call the exertion of carrying his adult son, and he’s so _warm_. Dick relaxes against him, and if he focuses only on the sound of Bruce’s heart, things seem like they might be okay. 

Soon Bruce finds the trail, and it’s much smoother going. The ground is lit by the residual light of the sun that’s just dipping below the horizon.

“You’re going to get through this,” Bruce says. 

They round a corner and the Manor’s bright lights begin to peek through the trees. This far away, and in the dark, it seems like an inn awaiting travelers, high upon the hill, promising a rest and long sleep to wash away the day. 

“Yeah,” Dick says, and if it’s for Bruce-- if it’s for his dad, and his little brothers-- then he'll try to believe it. “Yeah, I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I put a lot of time into this work, so I'd appreciate it if you comment and let me know what you think. :) 
> 
> Edit 7/12/20: I have made an FST for this and the following works. If you want to check it out,  
> [it's here on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/02hX7ukXzG5H9UGacEM2zC?si=ciGcdvGWR0q9RjrRhE6G-Q).


End file.
